The Only One to Ever Know
by Ardendaeas
Summary: AU What if the O.K. Corral had a different outcome? Doc's POV. Warnings: Hints of DocWyatt, character death, and foul language.


**Author's Note: Alright, first off, this is my first Tombstone fanfiction, and I'm not as happy with it as I thought I was going to be. I couldn't, at this time, get Doc, or anyone for that matter, truly in character, but that might be because I haven't written anything for them before. And I am never, ever doing another one in first person. I hate first person; I don't even know why I did it this time...**

**Anyway, this is an Alternate Universe ending to the shootout at the O. K. Corral. It has character death, and slight Doc/Wyatt. I'm not much of a fan of this pairing, but if it's done well, I like it. I don't think I did that well of a job with this, actually, and someday I might come back and severely fix it, but not now. **

**I promise that I'll try to make the next Tombstone fanfiction much, much better than this. Please Read and Review, and please don't flame. I know this thing sucks. Thanks.**

**-Ardendaeas**

**_The Only One to Ever Know_**

Before yesterday, if you had asked me who would live longer -- Wyatt or me -- I would have chuckled sardonically and unfalteringly pointed you in Wyatt's direction. By any rights, I should be dead, and he alive, but the tables have been turned, and I am the survivor.

Yesterday was the twenty-sixth of October, eighteen eighty-one. Yesterday was also the last day of Wyatt Earp's life.

There had only been one cowboy left, Frank McLaury, and I'd had him in my sights. He thought I was in his -- the gun in my right hand had run out of ammunition. But he was quickly picked off, either by my bullet or Morgan's, I know not which. It had not occured to me that McLaury's pistol had gone off -- not till later.

As I turned, nodding to Morgan, I saw Wyatt, standing next to his brother. He had a slightly puzzled expression on his face; there was a frown on his lips, and his dark eyebrows were furrowed in an expression that could have been terrifyingly fierce, but was more comical than anything.

"Wondering how the hell we got ourselves into this?" I joked, re-holstering my pistols with a habitual twirl, though I knew I could not make light of the situation -- not with the expressions on everyone's faces, and the emptyness in my chest, which was thankfully not a pain.

"No." His brows twitched into a further furrow, and his frown deepened, and Wyatt raised his gaze to mine.

I noticed he had been clutching his side just as he pulled his hand away, and my jaw went slack when I saw it was covered in blood. Wyatt's blood.

Wyatt looked down at his hand, at the bullet wound in his side, and the frown twitched in a half-hearted smile. "Well, I'll be damned," he said, before pitching backwards.

It was only by reflex tht I caught him and lowered him to the ground -- I was too shocked to do much else. At the time, I did not realize what was going on, but Wyatt, quick on the uptake as ever, seemed to catch on immediatley.

One of the only reasons I think anyone noticed anything was wrong was because of Morgan's cry of dismay as he crawled to Wyatt's side, and Mattie's scream as that be-damned woman rounded the corner of Fly's Photography.

Gently, I held Wyatt up in a marginally sitting position, mechanically applying pressure to the wound with my hand, feeling Wyatt's blood seeping through and around my slender fingers.

As Mattie reached us, letting out another scream at Wyatt's appearance and condition, I looked up, anger bubbling and rising within me at the sight of the woman -- what Wyatt saw in her, I do not know. She did not deserve him.

"Fetch a doctor!" I commanded her, my voice low and laced with well-veiled panic. She hesitated, damn her soul.

"A doctor!" I hissed threateningly, perhaps more harshly than I should have. "I trust the morphine has not clouded your brain enough to render you completely useless?"

She appeared angry, offended, and confused, (though it hardly mattered to me at the time), but w as strangely docile enough to rush off and do my bidding, though not half as fast as such a situation certainly dictates.

In those few moments, I was almost totally non-responsive -- I could feel Morgan at my side, gasping and sobbing with pain and anger, horror, and Virgil, standing above me -- but I took no notice of them.

I lowered my eyes to Wyatt, and clutched one of his hands with my own, squeezing it reassuringly and immediatley feeling ashamed at how I had treated Mattie, as I saw Wyatt's frown.

"You shouldn't be so harsh, Doc," he said, coughing, his breathing shallow.

"She deserves it," I answered in a flash of callousness. To any other woman, I would have been as gentle in words as a lamb -- ladies were ladies, after all -- but Mattie had been an object of my hatred for a long time.

I, again immediatley, regretted my words at the sadness in Wyatt's eyes, and corrected myself. "I'm sorry, Wyatt. The doctor will be here in a minute."

Wyatt smiled bittersweetly.

"No, no," I said quickly, catching onto that smile. "Don't even think that, Wyatt, you bastard."

I felt both Morgan and Virgil stiffen, and felt even more keenly their astonished eyes upon me, and then on Wyatt, but I ignored them, pushing on before Wyatt could retaliate. I couldn't believe he was thinking about giving up so easily.

"No, Wyatt; you're going to outlive me, and have five children." The paleness of his face scared me. "You're gonna see this millenium out for me, remember? You can't give up now."

Wyatt smiled kindly, his eyes as soft as ever, and his expression of peace pulling at what heart-strings I might have left. He shuddered and took a breath, raising one hand to cup my cheek in a reassuring gesture, and smearing his blood on my face in the process.

"No, Doc," he said, "I can feel this." Those eyes, brown and warm, much like the whiskey that warms me on cold nights and when my cough stars up, flicked to Virgil, who, uncharacteristically, looked slightly scared standing there, leaning on my cane, at a loss of what to do; much as I was.

"Take care of Morg, Virg," he said, drawing a shaky breath before continuing. "And Mattie, if you can. And yourself." He looked to his left, to Morgan, who was crouched at his side, clutching his own bleeding shoulder and looking stricken." Morgan, take care of yourself. Don't get into any trouble, ya' hear?" He smiled, the action causing a few wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. Such beautiful eyes.

"No, no, no, no, no...!" That was Morgan.

Wyatt didn't ask anyone, even me, to take care of me, at least at first. He probably thought it would offend my pride. Bloody man; it would have been nice if he'd said something.

As if he could read my thoughts, Wyatt, my oldest and greatest friend, turned those eyes to mine, and spoke again, his voice almost a whisper.

"And someone take care of Doc," he said, without looking away. "Lord knows he won't do it himself."

For some reason, this phrase broke me out of the spell we were all captive under. Quite a crowd had gathered by now, but Mattie and the doctor were not among them.

Wyatt's black Stetson had fallen off when he had tipped backwards, exposing the dark waves of his brown hair. It glistened in the sun, like his eyes, which seemed more alive than ever, even as he spoke of death.

"Don't talk like that, Wyatt," I said, nearly commanding, squeezing his hand again. "You're talkin' crazy. You're gonna be just fine."

I knew Virgil and Morgan were repeating the same plea, in different phrases, but I couldn't hear them, couldn't see them.

Wyatt shook his head, damn him. "Not this time, Doc, not this time."

I could hardly see his face, my vision was swimming so much with tears, but I blinked them away. He was too beautiful for blindness, even in this state.

"Don't leave me here," I murmured, so lowly even Morgan, who was just next to me, couldn't hear, though somehow Wyatt did. He chuckled.

"I don't have a choice, Doc," he said with a smile. "It's my time. I've gotta go."

"Don't you get all self-righteous with me, Wyatt," I retorted, hating him in that moment for giving up so easily. Wyatt wasn't ever supposed to give up. Absently, I felt a wetness sticking to my eyelashes and running down my cheeks, but I didn't care.

"Damn, Doc, don't go crying on me," he said, raising a hand to wipe away a tear and only succeeding in smearing it with his blood. "You don't ever cry."

"Don't you dare leave, Wyatt," I hissed, coughing as I choked on a sob. "Don't you dare. I'll follow you."

He smiled, infuriatingly so. "You wouldn't do that, Doc. You've got too much of a will to live to do that. We both know it, so don't try to josh me."

We both knew he was right, but it w as angering.

"You aren't gonna go and die on me, Wyatt," I told him matter-of-factly. "I'm not gonna let you."

"Hell, Doc…"

He didn't continue. He exchanged a glance with me that said more than any words could say. I felt what soul I had left pour into those soft brown orbs, and the inner part of me that had accepted its fate knew that as soon as Wyatt died, so would I. Perhaps not physically, yet, but certainly spiritually.

Wyatt mouthed something that looked like 'I love you, Doc.' I pray it was.

Then he raised his voice again. "Goodbye Virgil; Morgan." He looked at each in turn before looking at me and letting out a sigh, closing his eyes.

"Goodbye, Doc."

I waited for a few moments with baited breath for him to open his eyes again, and to draw another breath. He did not.

That second I realized he was gone was the single most terrible and horrifying experience of my life. Everything turned hot or cold, and empty. The tears stung my eyes like acid, and my heart leapt to my throat, leaving and empty feeling between my ribs. My mind turned cold, and my vision blurred, making me blink to clear it.

I let out a single pained cry -- I didn't hear it, but I could feel it ripping through my lungs -- and wrapped Wyatt in my arms, hugging him to my chest, and kissing his forehead, burying my face against his neck and sobbing uncontrollably.

Hell, he still smelled like Wyatt -- slightly musky, slightly of leather, gunpowder, horses, slightly of the Arizona sun. I expected him to wake up any moment -- it seemed like he was simply asleep. Fuck, I thought for sure I could feel his arms embracing me back. But he wasn't. How dare he die and leave me here? He w as supposed to outlive me, supposed to live for me!

I doubt I ever would have broken out of that if Virgil, showing uncharacteristic concern, hadn't put a hand on my back to comfort me while I coughed and sobbed and hiccupped, fighting for breath.

But then, it was also at that touch that I snapped.

I know I let out some kind of expletive, but I know not what. I'm not sure who I was angrier at in that moment, Wyatt for being right and dieing, or at Frank McLaury for killing him.

I was on my feet in a flash, my gun in my hands. I whirled on Frank McLaury's corpse, though I could hardly see for the tears, and emptied the remaining bullets into the deceased cowboy's body.

Behan chose that moment to show himself, the coward, and I almost killed him. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I know not which, I had run out of ammunition, and as I turned, I slipped and fell to the street. I began to rise to my feet, I know not how, intent upon doing him -- another man certainly to blame -- harm. But my be-damned lungs chose that moment to try to rip themselves from my chest.

I fell to all fours, coughing like I had been possessed by the devil, which anyone who could see me could probably attest to -- I was pale, my eyes surely dark- and red-rimmed, there were blood and tears on my hands, face and vest, and more was spilling from my mouth to the street, and I was trembling and shaking uncontrollably.

Dimly, I felt myself hauled gently to my feet as the coughing stopped, by Creek Johnson and Jack Vermillion, two old friends of Wyatt and me.. Suddenly, all of my strength drained completely, and I sagged into their support, my mind drifting in and out of focus, like my vision, only affording me glimpses of understanding and coherency of the scene before me.

For a moment, I saw Virgil, always one to take charge, speaking to Behan. And the doctor I had so futilely sent for crouching next to the body of my friend; I wanted to call out that it was too late, too late, but the copper taste of blood filled my moth, and my tongue felt like the balls of cotton so abundant near my home in Georgia.

I saw Morgan rise, despite the wound to his shoulder, and begin to scream and shout; not in any particular direction or at any one person, but at the whole situation -- just as I would have joined him, if I had been possessed of the strength.

And Mattie. For a moment, the hatred and anger that had spilled from me came rushing back as I saw her, standing there. She was crying but she looked more confused than anything, and I suspect she had morphine in her system. But then, she always did, anymore. She had not deserved Wyatt, for all his faults; he was too good for her. He had never told me what he saw, no, what he had seen in her, no matter how many times I hinted at asking. Whatever reason, he took it to his premature grave.

I almost lament that he did not ask me to take care of Mattie. True, Virgil had known him longer, but I knew him better. I suspect he did not want to burden me with a task he knew I would despise, though I also suspect he knew I would have done it anyway.

Damn him. He left me with nothing. Nothing.

After that, I remember nothing but pain and weariness, until I woke up in the small apartment that Kate and I shared above Camillius Fly's shop.

Kate was sitting on the edge of the bed, smoking a cigarette. She was dressed in a red and black dress I had purchased for her once on the spur of a moment, after winning a large sum of money. I suspect she had been interrupted in a poker game, or perhaps plying her less-than-respectable trade.

At a soft cough that I could not swallow back, she turned to face me and smiled.

"Feeling better, Doc?"

I didn't answer her, but closed my eyes for a moment, letting a sigh out through my nose.

I heard the bed creak as Kate stood up, I imagine putting out her cigarette in the crystal ash-tray that had always been on the bed-stand. The mattress creaked again, and I felt it sag as she reclined next to hem.

"You okay, Doc?" That was odd. Usually Kate had little or no patience what-so-ever, particularly with me.

She put a hand on my thigh, and ran that delicately manicured hand up my stomach. In any other situation, I am sure I probably would have gladly taken her up on her obvious offer, but now I simply rolled onto my side. I was not facing her.

"I'm sorry, darlin'," I muttered just loud enough for her to hear. If she did, she gave no indication.

There was complete silence for several moments, save for the noise from down-stairs and out on the street; the ticking of my pocket watch, and the grandfather clock across the room. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, she rose without a word.

I could hear her about the room, but it didn't occur to me that she was packing until the door had shut behind her. So that was it; Kate had left me again. This time, I doubted she would be back.

I am slightly ashamed to say I cried myself back to sleep. Not so much because Kate had left me, (she had made a regular habit out of that particular action), but because of the air of finality and abandonment that seemed to hang over me like some kind of cloud or fog. I have always been independent, but that was beside the point.

When I woke up again, it was a little before dawn. I could see the beginnings of a lighter gray on the edges of the horizon from through the thin drapes.

I am not sure where I found the strength to rise and dress. Lord knows I felt too tired to do much of anything. I imagine I did it purely out of habit; probably because I was working on auto-react. I did not absorb much, but some part of me that hadn't been shut down was ushering me through my morning routine.

Just before my strength gave out completely, I took a seat on the floor, just inside the slight balcony. By this time, the un was preparing to break over the horizon, and I automatically turned my eyes towards it.

I had always enjoyed sunrises as a child, in the South. There, the sunrises seem to come in one brilliant flash, suddenly taking a gray, monotonous, pre-dawn world and plunging it into light, lighting the land in fires of red, yellow, orange, and pink, shining on the magnolia trees and turning the beads of dew to fiery diamonds before the sun burned them fully away. My mother always liked sunrises, and I made a point of rising with her to see them, from the time I was old enough to train myself to wake that early. When she got too sick to see them herself, I would get up every morning and watch them for her, then describe them to her in excruciating detail. She always said it was almost as delightful as watching them with her own two eyes, though I knew she missed seeing such phenomenon for herself. I took great pride in 'showing' them to her, trying always to make them better, tell them better. My mother always used to laugh at my attempts to describe them with flowery and flamboyant words and phrases. She said I had a touch of the poet about me, though if that is true, I have yet to find it.

After she died, I could not bear to watch another sunrise until I met Wyatt; the memories were too painful.

Wyatt was trailing some manner of criminal, I do not remember who or for what crime, and most certainly not why I was traveling with Wyatt. Naked boredom, I imagine first. I had awoken to a slight fit of coughing, about a half an hour before dawn, and was met with the sight of Wyatt, up extremely early and facing the just-lightening eastern sky, leaning against his saddle.

At first, I'd thought that there was danger, or an intruder or visitor, but my eyes had been met with nothing as I'd searched the surrounding landscape. Nothing but the normal occasional patch of brush and a lone coyote, slinking off into the remaining darkness. And besides, Wyatt was far too relaxed for such an event.

For several moments, I simply watched the way the pre-dawn light shone on his face, making his skin look paler than it was. He had a cup of what could only be coffee clutched in his hands. Lord knows, it makes me laugh, how much Wyatt did enjoy his coffee.

Though some inner sense, he turned, knowing I was awake. He smiled that small but warm little smile of his and held out another cup, as though he had known and had been waiting for me to only wake.

"There's whiskey in that," he said matter-of-factly as I took the cup, letting its contents warm my overly cold hands. I nodded, and took a sip. The warm liquid burned all the way down my throat and then settled warmly in my stomach.

"What are you doing up so early, Wyatt?" I asked, regarding him with a smile. "Or is it true that law and justice are ever-vigilant?"

"Just waiting for the sun," Wyatt had answered. He had never been one to beat around the bush.

"Ah," I had replied with a widening smile. "Making sure an errant horse-thief hasn't turned his trade and stolen it? Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, my dear Earp, but I know of not a single horse-thief or any other kind of robber, for that matter, smart enough to accomplish such a feat."

Wyatt laughed, but didn't answer. I've heard a lot of people say that he didn't laugh much, or smile much, but I've certainly heard a lot of chuckles and seen a goodly amount of grins from him.

I had been taught as a child that if was rude to intrude upon the reflections of others, so I made no more attempts to make conversation. But, to my surprise, Wyatt spoke up.

"Come sit with me, Doc," he said, looking over at me with those brown eyes. "For some reason, sunrises are always more enjoyable with someone else."

"Indeed, sir." I smiled and stood, one of our blankets clutched around me with one hand, Indian-style. The nights in Arizona and the surrounding territories can be bitingly cold, despite popular belief that it is constantly as hot as Hell.

Clutching my coffee cup in one hand, the unoccupied one of the pair, I sat down again at Wyatt's side. By this time, the first sliver of gold had appeared at what seemed at the time to be the edge of the world.

I have found that the West has several different kinds of sunrises. There are, of course, the bright flashes; there are the slower 'creepers' and 'glows', where the light comes slowly, and was just a lingering crimson at the back of one's retinas.

This one, rather fittingly, was a slow one, and Wyatt, reminding me of myself when I still lived in Georgia, took great care to compare this spectacle with others he had seen.

The red was so bloody he'd said; he'd never seen one quite so brilliant. Wyatt had used so many words, yet remaining within his customary bluntness; at the moment, I forget them. Funny, I never thought I would.

This one, too, on the morning of October twenty-seventh, was no less slow and spectacular. At first, there was just a hint of gold and silver on the horizon and over the buildings. It looked rather like the halos depicted around saints' head in the old, revered church paintings. Then came the hints of red and yellow, rather like the blush of sufficiently-ripe peaches. Then a light pink and orange began t emerge, like some flower rearing its head after a fire, and leaking brilliance. Then there was a flash of gold as the outer edge of the greatest celestial coin made its way around the earth. Then, just before my eyes clouded completely, there was a line of silver, and the first hint of blue, periwinkle sky.

Willing myself to breathe through my sobs, I hugged my knees to my chest, my forehead resting on my kneecaps. Damn Wyatt. Everywhere I looked now, something reminded me of him. And was it my imagination, or had he looked particularly smug as he'd smiled at me? Hell, this was the most I'd cried in years; since I was a young child, surely.

Suddenly I felt quite alone. It seemed that Wyatt had been the last to remember me. All the rest of them had forgotten me. I mattered to no one but myself, now that Wyatt had gone, and that only out of survival instincts.

Therefore, I didn't hear the door to my room open, and was startled nearly out of my wits when I heard Morgan's voice above me.

"Christ, Doc," he said when I looked up and met his gaze. "You look like hell."

I wanted to reply, 'So do you,' but I did not. He was pale, his cheeks spotty, and he had dark marks under his yes like bruises, as sign that he, too, had gotten little restful sleep. I'm sure I looked about the same, probably a little worse.

Instead, I sighed wearily, and wiped the drying tears from my face with a handkerchief that Morgan was kind enough to hand me without comment.

Right now, I have to endearingly express how much I wonder at Morgan's innocence. Christ, he had known Wyatt longer than I had, fuck, he was his damn brother, and yet, he tried his damndest to at least get my mind off Wyatt's death He knew it was best for both of us.

"Come on, Doc" he said, holding out a hand. "Let's go have some breakfast, huh?"

After a pause, I took his hand and let him haul me to my feet, where I trembled for a moment before I found my strength. My eyes caught his right arm, hanging in its white sling, and then looked up at him. He smiled at me as though he could read my mind, and clapped me gently on he shoulder with his free hand.

"Let's get some food into our stomachs, eh?" Silently, we exited my room and made our way down the stairs. Fly's shop was not yet open, but he was up, counting money. He hailed us as we passed. He had always been an early riser.

The street outside was nearly empty, and the air had that crisp, fresh feeling to it often found in early morning, before the rest of the world get up and breathes it. This is the time of day when many gamblers have just finished or returned from their last game, if it came to that, myself included, though not this time.

The business in the Oriental was at a pause -- the late-retreaters had just left, and it would be a few hours before the serious early drinkers and breakfast-seekers arrived. Milt looked up from cleaning a glass and Morgan nodded in acknowledgement. I'm not sure if he realized his destination until we reached it -- the faro table. Wyatt's faro table.

I sat down, but Morgan did not. He seemed to think I was more weary than he was. "You just sit right there, and I'll go have Milt bring us some breakfast."

I have always resented being treated as an invalid, but for once, I said nothing. Morgan's intentions were of the best variety, and it would hurt both of us too much if I have the impression I was angry with him.

I gave him a smile, and nodded. He returned my smile, patted me on the shoulder, and moved away. Dully, I watched him go, thanking God, if he was there or even listening, that someone had remembered me.

He exchanged a few low words with Milt, and then returned, pulling out a chair next to me with his un-injured arm and taking a seat.

"I didn't know what you wanted, Doc," he said, "so I just got you some coffee and whisky and some bacon."

I nodded, wondering how he could function so normally just after someone so close to him had died. "Thank you, Morgan."

There was a pause for several moments, before Morgan spoke.

"I miss Wyatt, Doc," he said slowly, as though he was still getting used to his brother's death. I could easily relate.

"Me too, Morgan," I answered after a second, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I miss him too."

"It doesn't really feel like he's gone, you know?" Morgan said, more than asked. "I'm waiting for him. It feels like he just went out for a ride, and hasn't gotten back yet."

"I know, Morg, I know."

"I need you to help me, Doc," he said suddenly, turning to me. "I need you to help me kill them."

"Kill who?" I asked, though I knew the answer well. Maybe not so innocent after all.

"Ringo and Curly Bill," he said, just as slow as he had been talking before. "And Ike, and all the rest."

Yes, not so innocent after all…

Wyatt's funeral was the next day. I had watched the sunrise that morning as well, and though I had though it not possible, this one was even more spectacular than the last. The day, as well, was beautiful -- crisp, and surprisingly sunny.

Wyatt was buried at sunset. Somehow, I managed both not to cry nor to laugh. Although the latter seems vastly inappropriate under such circumstances, I felt like it none-the-less. This was the end of an era, that I knew, though I knew not what would come next.

Rather ironic, I find -- he was buried with his Peacemaker, in the holster at his hip, where it had hung for so long. And yet, hands folded over his chest, a bible was set on his left. His hair was combed out in an almost-halo about his head. In… death, his hands, strong, had taken on a paleness that seemed more appropriate on me, not the golden-brown tan Wyatt had been possessed of in life.

Truly, he seemed only as though he was sleeping, save for the absence of the rise and fall of his chest. That does sound rather cliché, does it not? Makes me vaguely wonder how many other people have said or thought something along those lines.

The funeral has been obscured to my memory, it seems, as I remember little of it -- only snatches. Only a dumb, dull numbness, mostly. It is indescribable, that horrible experience, unless it is described to someone who has experienced such for themselves.

Perhaps the most frustrating and agonizing fact about the whole affair was that I had always vowed I would take any bullet for Wyatt, if the opportunity presented itself, and if it was needed. There had been my chance, but I had not kept my promise. I had failed the only person who had ever, somehow, given me hope. I'd let him down, and he would never know it.

He left me with nothing but hope that somehow still lingered.

And I would be the only one to ever know.


End file.
